I'll Be Waiting
by crocious
Summary: Cold War era. Russia stalks his prey. Fail summary is fail.


**Hi, everyone! Here's a little Cold War fic for your enjoyment or sommat. It's totally out of my comfort genre, so everyone please give a shout-out and a thank you to KayKatastr0phe for betaing! Thank you, Kay!**

**I'm sorry it's not funny or slashy or anything. It's just very Cold War.**

**As always, I own nothing.**

America cheerfully thanked the barista and gathered his coffee and donut. It was a point of amusement to the other nations that he took his caffeine at nine at night, but the behemoth hiding behind the tree had never seen the humor in abusing your own body like that. Clearly this capitalist idiot had much to learn about abuse.

Russia bit back a smile. There was much he had to teach America. He shook his head lightly and continued to watch from behind the tree as America came out of the coffee shop and headed home.

Tonight, Russia thought. Tonight the education begins.

When America turned down a block, Russia followed him and watched silently from behind walls. The city was erratic and twisty, nothing like the cold, efficient streets of Moscow. These streets bled into each other, tumbling and laughing against each other in the cool New York night. New Yorkers navigated effortlessly through, chattering and laughing and making plans. The odd tourist called for help locating a landmark or address and the people, for the most part, ignored them. If the streets were veins in America's body, he'd have died long ago from an embolism.

How dare he still breathe.

America turned down yet another street and Russia took yet another hiding space behind a wall. Repressing his sudden surge of fury, Russia suddenly recognized a closed bagel shop he had eaten at once on his stakeout. So they were close now. Months of waiting had brought Russia here, and in roughly eight minutes from passing this benign bagel shop, it would all be over. Russia's stomach lurched in excitement and he choked down a giggle of glee.

What did he still need? Russia dipped his gloved hand into his coat and twisted the rope until he heard it protest. The knife rested, warm, against his hip. He adjusted his body until he felt his skin split under the metal. Oh, how beautiful it would feel with America's skin against the blade. And his pipe. His friendly little piece of pipe. He had made it its own holster, a little strap of leather painted with sunflowers hugging his thigh. He loved his pipe, and it was thirsty. Russia shivered in anticipation.

But he needed silence. America lived on the sixth floor of a well-to-do apartment building. This made escape nearly impossible, but he had to keep the moron quiet while he did his job so the neighbors wouldn't call the police. Part of Russia quipped that the neighbors might be more concerned if they didn't hear the capitalist swine talking, considering he gave the impression that he would die if he closed his mouth for even a minute. A smaller part said that perhaps America's neighbors would be used to the screaming. Russia had watched. He had seen England come and go from the flat, hair and clothes a mess. He had studied America's self-satisfied grin as he hailed a taxi to take him to breakfast. He caught the hungry glances, the lingering touches, the secret twists of their lips.

What a fucking slut.

As Russia debated silently to himself, he noticed America had taken a wrong turn. He should have continued straight, not turned left into another street. Russia fought with himself for a few minutes. Should he follow the fool longer or just wait outside the apartment until he saw the third window to the right go dark? America probably just had another errand to run. But what was down that street? In his single mindedness, Russia had only bothered to learn the streets his prey frequented, and this one was new. Should he wait at the apartment building? Or should he follow?

A sudden jab in Russia's spine made up his mind for him. A large hand crushed Russia's shoulder and he felt the knife in his back tear his beautiful coat.

"Do you think I'm an idiot, Ivan?" America's voice hissed menacingly. New Yorkers averted their eyes and walked past, ignoring as they do best.

Russia smiled softly, raising his arms over his head and being ignored by a police car. "America," he said. "Imagine meeting you here of all places. It is good to see you, comrade."

"You've been following me for a while. Planning an attack?"

"Ah, my friend, you wound me. I came to see the Grand Canyon. Is that a crime?"

"It is if you're looking for it in New York."

Russia chanced a glance backward. America's blue eyes were boiling with barely contained rage and the knife pushed its way into Russia's flesh. How beautiful. Given the choice, America might rip the Russian apart piece by piece, tearing meat from bone and organ from meat. How delightful that hatred is to watch! How delicious!

"Kolkolkol," Russia laughed softly. "I knew I had fumbled something."

"The four months of no canyon didn't tip you off?"

Russia's smile faltered momentarily.

"Yeah. I knew. You have twenty seconds to explain why you've been following me, commie. And if I don't like what I hear, I'm calling the UN to detain you."

"Would you believe it is because I think you are pretty?"

"Walk," America ordered. Russia felt his blood gush from the knife in his back and his eyes filled with pleasure and anger. He chuckled lightly and stayed where he was.

"Walk," America repeated, punctuating the word with a stronger jab. Russia felt the knife scrape against a bone and he shuddered in unconscious disgust, jarring the blade.

"You underestimate me, you must stop doing that."

"There is a knife in your fucking back, Ivan. You're in no position to talk unless I ask you a question."

Russia chuckled. "You are wrong."

"What?"

And then Russia heard that beautiful click and the deep Spanish accent. "Let him go, amigo."

Hesitantly, the blade in Russia's back retreated. He let out a sigh of relief as he pulled away and looked at Cuba, short and dumpy little Cuba, holding the pistol to America's head and waiting for an order. America dropped the bloody knife and raised his arms above his head, body shaking in rage. If he willed it, Russia could end America right now.

And he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted dear Carlos to pull that trigger right now and paint the wall with American brain. Children stared, not yet accustomed to the New York tradition of letting bad things happen. Ivan smiled. To watch their country die in front of their eyes would stain the children forever. How wonderful. Cuba and America were like statues, waiting on the word.

But if Cuba killed America, Canada and England would come for him and destroy his family. Lithuania. Estonia. Adorable little Latvia. Prussia. They would watch him die and smile, pulling off parts of his body to take for themselves. Only Belarus would cry and fight off the scavengers, and only Ukraine would take care to bury him. The rest of the world would laugh.

"Come, Carlos."

The Cuban regretfully lowered his pistol and walked away, watching Russia silently. America sighed in relief and lowered his arms.

"For now you live, America. But trust me. I will find a way to destroy you."

"I'll be waiting."

Russia smiled at the bold and foolish nation almost fondly. "Farewell, comrade."

Russia slung his arm across Cuba's shoulders and the two disappeared into the New York night, ignoring and ignored by all.


End file.
